Sneachda
by Nyssa Lovelace
Summary: It was currently snowing outside, little sparkles of white snuff swirling in the wind, latching onto the windows. Wales thought it was beautiful – the way the snow twirled and blanketed everything in white.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia nor do I own any characters from it. (Except for my ocs. Those are my ideas, yeah?)**

**Be forewarned, I cannot do accents in writing for the life of me. Not even the accents I've grown up around. Although you might catch the odd phrase here or there that comes from the kind of speech I've lived around for the duration of my life so far. And as for the ocs, well, that's how they are in my head, so…yeah.**

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Below the Carolinas, in an area Wales thought appeared slightly similar to his own land, he and his brothers, including Ireland who had taken delight in smiting England (England had not wanted him to come), were gathered in a newly built Georgian Colonial style house; these were big, beautiful houses with wide lands of area surrounding them. You could go several kilometers before reaching another house. He quite liked that, having open kilometers of open land surrounding you.

It was currently snowing outside, little sparkles of white snuff swirling in the wind, latching onto the windows. Wales thought it was beautiful – the way the snow twirled and blanketed everything in white. The longer the snow fell, the less he was able to see through the windows. He wondered what sort of omen this could bring for the child that was about to be born.

In answer to his thoughts of said child, the first shrill cries of a newborn reverberated through the house. Wales turned from the window, his hand tightening around the handle of the tea-cup he held. It had been England's opinion that it would calm everyone's nerves. Regrettably, it had done little to settle his.

His eyes maintained a steady focus on the entryway into the den, where the brothers were now located, as if the baby would suddenly appear there any moment. He noticed that his brothers were doing the same. And Scotland, he looked the most intense of all. His tea-cup had already made contact with the floor – Wales briefly wondered why he hadn't heard this – his white-gloved hands were clenched tightly into fists, green eyes open wide and lips parted slightly in the way that tells you that person wants to say something, but is too baffled to speak.

Wales did not envy him. He couldn't imagine being a father himself. At that, he suddenly chuckled a bit. It was difficult to imagine Scotland a father, even now that the cries of his first-born child had graced the world.

Light footsteps suddenly sounded on the stairs, and soon, the kind face of the midwife greeted the men. Wales noticed that she had a small bundle of blankets in her arms.

She smiled, showing off her pearly white teeth, and addressed Scotland, "She's quite a beauty, sir, a true bonnie lass!" The woman's voice was so chipper when she spoke that you would have thought she was describing her own child. As no one, not even England, made to respond to her, she continued, "Oh, yes," her brown curls fell forwards as she looked down to the bundle, "the lads will be after her!"

A small gurgle came from the baby, which made the woman's grin grow. "And what a sweet lass, you are," she praised. Lifting her head back to the men in the room, the midwife scanned their faces, laughing at the shocked expressions, before turning to Scotland once more, "Would you like to hold your daughter, sir?"

All attention was then put on Scotland, who still wore a baffled expression, his lips slightly apart as if to say something. It seemed to go on for several minutes, Scotland staring at the midwife, the midwife holding the baby towards Scotland, and England, Ireland, and Wales all staring in anticipation at the two. And then Scotland reached for the baby.

The midwife smiled, placing the baby in his arms, and then showing his the correct position in which to hold his hands. "Da' and daughter, what a lovely sight," the woman smiled towards the three other men, trying to get them into conversation.

"Yes," England was the first to make an attempt at a response, albeit not well, because his 'yes' came out squeaky and too fast. His cheeks tinged slightly with pink, but with a cough to clear his throat, he continued, "I am sure Ki-," he stopped himself, as he had been about to say 'King', "George will want to hear the good news." With that said, he took off for the writing desk in the study upstairs, his hands clasped behind his back. He took one last long look at Scotland holding the baby, a smile almost upon his lips, before ascending the stairway.

"She's healthy, right?" It was Ireland who spoke, his eyes transfixed on Scotland and the baby. "There's a many disease out there today and-"

The midwife cut in at this point, a bemused expression on her face. "She's perfectly healthy. Master?" She paused whatever else she was going to say to ask for Ireland's name, she being none the wiser that the men that stood before her were in fact the personifications of nations or that the child she delivered was also a personification. Ireland imagined she'd go barmy if she did.

Without hesitation, he responded, "Daniel."

"I'm sorry, young master. I'd rather address you by your surname, if you don't mind."

"Kirkland," his response was slower this time. He hated people calling him by his surname, almost as much as being called Ireland. It felt more human to be called by a human name, and if no one was going to use it, then why have one. And honestly, he could do without the formality business England was so fond of. He was still young, at least he thought so, and he didn't much like being addressed as an old foggy, even though, and he didn't like the lassies to know this, he was older than England – the wanker.

"Master Kirkland," the midwife repeated, swiping a brown curl behind her left ear. "You must be the uncle then, yes?"

"One of the uncles," was the short response.

This did not deter the midwife from continuing to converse, as her grin returned at this. "What a kind uncle you are, Master Kirkland! Your niece is perfectly healthy, but you'll need to keep an eye on her in the future so that no harm comes to her!" She said this jokingly, but it made Daniel's eyes widen.

"Keep an eye on her? How do you do that properly?" Bad thoughts were suddenly swirling in his head. There were many things that could go wrong with a child, he knew, but even more so when that child was a personification of a colony. England was a great example. The little snake had gotten too big for his trousers too quick. "What do we do if the Spanish invade or if there's an outbreak of a deadly disease in the colony?" The black plague had suddenly resurfaced itself in his memory. "Or what if she has to fight against a brother someday?" The last one was just a fear that came from personal experience. The Kirkland brothers had always fought one another, well, mostly just the three eldest fighting England. He'd too recently gotten into it with England again himself, so the idea of fighting a sibling was quite fresh in his memory.

"Young Master Kirkland, if the Spanish were to invade, they surely would not harm a small baby," the kind voice of the midwife spoke comfortingly to them all. Wales quietly thought that this was not true, but chose not to speak up, because the woman would not understand his reasoning nor did he want to plague her with the truth of their identities. "And I wasn't aware that the wee bairnie had an elder brother. Is the lad on his way?"

"She has no brother," Scotland, who'd been silently holding the baby up until the moment, responded. He had his arms wrapped protectively around the baby, having become adjusted to holding a baby surprisingly quick. Without looking up from the baby, he asked shortly, "How is she?"

Wales blinked. She? Who was Scotland – he stopped himself there in that train of thought. He knew quite well who Scotland was referring to, the mother of the baby, of course.

The midwife looked a bit baffled at first, but with a reassuring smile from Wales and a tilt of his head towards the stairway, an expression of understanding came upon her face. With a chipper tone, she answered, "Better than most, especially with it being her first, sir. S'pose you'll want to see her. I can go check – "

"No," was the short response from Scotland. He had no desire to see the mother of the child he held in his arms, not now or anytime in the foreseeable future. She would be gone within the hour, he was sure. It would not be like her to linger. She would not stay to raise the child nor would it ever be likely that she approach the child in the future. That was simply the type of woman she had become through long years of war, plague, and all the other disasters nations faced. So, strange as it may have seemed to a human, Scotland accepted it.

A small gurgle came from the bundle in Scotland's arms. Scotland jumped, caught off guard by the child – his little girl. He stared down at her with his green eyes and wondered, as her big dark eyes stared back, if her eyes would be her mother's shade of green or his. Similar thoughts, such as hair color and height swirled in his mind. Her current hair, the little curls that she had, appeared to be a very light blonde, like cotton. He was sure it'd be darker soon. Nessie forbid any child of his be born with a hair color similar to England's.

"Well, I've nearly finished," England had re-entered the room, holding up an unfinished letter to show them all. He'd been watching the scene for just a few moments, taking in the joyous moment before getting down to business.

"Nearly finished?" Ireland scoffed. "What's taking you so long – trying to write a love letter or something?" This issued a laugh from Wales and Scotland, and even a little giggle from the midwife, who then quickly excused herself to go check on the mother of the child after receiving a look from England.

England's face reddened and he narrowed his eyes at Ireland, his left fist, the one that was not clutching the letter, curling into a fist. Through gritted teeth, he replied, "I need to inform the King of the child's name."

"Hasn't he already named her after himself?" Wales asked, lifting an eyebrow. Surely England remembered that before they had set off for the New World, the King had specifically stated that he wished the child, boy or girl, to be named after him.

"Named after a vile, ill-tempered King, eh? Poor lass."

Fist still clenched, England sent another sharp look towards Ireland, "Please refrain from speaking of King George in such an uncouth manner."

"I'll speak ill of your Kings if I wish, baby brother," He spoke these words as if talking to a child, taunting and haughty.

Before England could issue a response, which might end up in another scuffle between him and Ireland, Wales braved his way between the two garnering attention to himself. "Do you mean her human name?" He took a guess at this. All nations and colonies, for that matter, had human names, so that they could have some sense of being human.

England straightened his collar out of habit, still holding delicately to the letter, and nodded briefly. "Indeed. The colony shall be named Georgia, for the King, but she also requires a human name. I thought that the King might appreciate the knowledge of his newest colony's name."

_Waa. Waa. _

All the men in the room paused, eyes transitioning to Scotland and the baby that was now crying. Rather loudly crying. Babies weren't all smiles and happy little gurgles.

"What did you do?" England hissed, trying to berate Scotland, but not upset the baby any further at the same time.

Scotland was too focused on bouncing the baby in his hands to give England the death glare that he wanted to for that question. As if it was his fault that the baby was crying – honestly. So he'd accidentally almost dropped because he'd been going for that silver candle holder, which he was going to beat England over the head with for saying that his child was the 'newest colony' of that bloody King of his. It was odd, this new feeling of parental attachment and protection he was feeling towards the bairn. Hopefully it would pass soon.

"I did nothin'," Scotland seethed, "it was you callin' 'er the King's colony that upset 'er."

"What?" England scoffed at the notion. "She is the King's colony. Honestly, if you don't know how to take care of a baby just say – would you stop bouncing her so hard? Maybe that's why she's upset."

Against his will as he would say, Scotland took England's advice and started to bounce the baby more gently in his arms, meaning that the baby was no longer being lifted ever so slightly out of his arms. And, to his surprise, but not England's, the little bairn stopped crying.

"So what's her name?" Ireland asked lazily, leaning against the windowsill with an unlit pipe hanging loosely from his lips.

Wales was quick to chastise him, "Don't light that with the baby in here!" With a sigh, Ireland reluctantly removed the pipe from his mouth and placed it in his pocket. He'd use it sometime today, even if it meant he'd have to freeze in the snow.

Rubbing his temples due to the oncoming headache, England spoke up, "I thought Ian could choose, seeing as he is the father."

With no hesitation, Scotland responded with a grin, "Nessie." Ireland threw back his head with laughter and Wales suddenly developed a smile out of amusement. The red-headed Scot would want to name his first child after his favorite monster, which wasn't really a monster at all when you thought about it.

England, however, was not amused. "You will not be naming the child after the Loch Ness monster!"

"Nessa, then."

"Nessa? What about Agnes? That's a proper name for a little girl, rather lovely, has a pleasant tone to it, yes?"

"No. It sounds like a nun." Nuns were too churchly – too devoted to a life of service. And they were virgins, meaning they never had any enjoyment in life. _Virgin._ The word reverberated in his mind and he glanced at the little face of his only daughter. _You will always be a virgin_, he quietly thought, _but I am not naming you Agnes_.

England was growing impatient, sensing that Scotland was not being serious about this at all. This was a very important matter, whether his brother realized it or not. A name was not to be trifled with. "Choose something else, then. I refuse to allow you to name this child Nessa."

"Fine, lord prissy pants, but I'll still be callin' 'er Nessa. Does Rosslyn sound alright to ya'?."

"Yes, yes, fine, give her a sensible second name to work with."

"Grace."

England's response was paused, as if mulling over whether this name was proper enough or not, until he finally nodded, "Right, that's acceptable. Well, then, Rosslyn Grace Kirkland it is."

"Antonia." Wales prompted, giving Scotland a knowing look.

Ireland glanced up at this, staring at Wales and then Scotland with a questioning look. Obviously, he'd been left out of something and he wanted to know what that something was. "What?"

Scotland inclined his head forward. "She," he quickly glanced upwards, making Ireland wonder why he was calling the ceiling a 'she', "wanted her to have that name too."

A look of understanding passed over England's face, although Ireland was still horribly lost in confusion. "Rosslyn Antonia Grace Kirkland, a fine name, if not a little too odd for my tastes."

Scotland resisted the urge to pick up that silver candle holder and bash his little brother over the head several times. It was difficult.

Shrugging off his confusion, knowing that he'd weasel the information out of Wales later, Ireland walked over to Scotland and draped an arm around his shoulder. His gaze landed on his niece and a smile instantly lit up his face. "Well then, welcome to the family, Rosslyn Antonia Grace. I'm your uncle Daniel. I'll be taking you drinking when your a bit older."

Wales followed Ireland's example, throwing an arm over Scotland's formerly free shoulder. "And I'm your more sensible uncle Rhys." He'd be the one trying to prevent Daniel taking her out for a drink, while England held off a murderous Scotland in the background. With the thought of his younger brother now in his mind, he looked up to see England staring at the little group and, noticing that he wore an expression that clearly said he felt left out, quickly gestured him over.

Tentatively, England made his was to stand in front of Scotland, peering down at the baby. "Hello, Rosslyn, I'm your uncle Arthur." He cleared his throat, because the thought of being someone's uncle had brought up a rush of emotion that threatened to bring tears to his eyes. "I promise to take good care of you."

Wales looked around at the faces of his brothers – England on the verge of tears but with a smile on his face, Ireland grinning like a fox, and Scotland just staring down with amazement at the little piece of heaven that was his daughter. What a wonderful day it was – February 1, 1732 – he'd remember this day forever.

England suddenly gasped, a look of surprise flashing over his face followed by a soft, unabashed smile. "She smiled at me."

With a sneer and a cross of his arms, Ireland quickly responded with, "No, it's me she was smiling at." This caused England to glare up at him, while Ireland stared back smugly. The two always had to irritate one another, no matter what situation they happened to be in.

Scotland suddenly chimed in, "She's was smilin' at 'er da', ya' twits." This issued responses from both Ireland and England, the specific words used would fade from Wales' memory in the years to come, but the sight of his whole family together – with the newest little addition – would never disappear.

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**The reason I have this headcanon that Scotland is Georgia's dad in the first place is because the very first settlers were Scottish sailors and several (I mean the majority) of Georgians claim Scottish ancestry (or Irish, but that's mostly in Savannah). There is a town in Georgia named Scotland, a Scottish festival held every year, among other things in honor of Scotland. Georgians love Scotland and a good bit of red-heads are from Georgia. (There are also the Scots-Irish in the mountains, but I won't get into them. They are very unique in their culture.) So, yeah, end of story, Georgia is Scotland's daughter to me. (And her mommy is...someone. Maybe you guessed it? Have an internet cookie if you did!)**

**England's brothers do not hate him. They only get annoyed with him, much like siblings usually do. I mean, I feel like bashing my brothers over the head with something from time to time. It's not odd. Is it? My younger brother hit my older brother with a spatula at the age of two. We start this sibling arguing thing early in my family. I'm not good with insults, by the way, especially ones used way back before I was alive, so sorry for the lame insults. **

**I by default gave Ireland, Wales, and Scotland England's last name, because I couldn't choose one specifically popular surname from Ireland, Wales, or Scotland. But I do believe they have a different surname they use that is popular in their own nations. Kirkland is just the default family name. (And if anyone was wondering why Northern Ireland was not here, he didn't exist yet.)**

**I'd also like to note that although Georgia was indeed founded on February 1****st****, 1732, the 'official' date is set as February 12****th****, 1733. This is due to the change in the dating system, so it's not really that a year was skipped over. **

**Well, I hope this was an enjoyable piece. And if so, then please tell me. I've got plenty of ideas for future fics featuring little Georgia and her daddy or uncles. **


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